What I will never know
There are some things that I will never know.
- As a man, I will never know many of the things that women know and experience. Of course, the reverse is also true.
- As a single male celibate person, I will never know fatherhood, or motherhood, in the way a biological parent does.
- As one “advanced in years” I can only imagine what it is like to grow up in the digital age. Just as those growing up today can never experience a childhood without an internet or a mobile phone. (What’s a modem, Mom?)
- As a child of lower middle-class immigrant parents, I will never know what it is like to grow up barely surviving one day to the next … or… as someone whose parents were very wealthy.
Going beyond a “uniform”
Yet, the challenge is not only to respect these differences but also learn from them. Perhaps the clearest example of that is the life-long task of respecting and learning from one’s partner through the many experiences of life.
The more we seek to understand the experience of others the more we will come to respect and learn from each other.
In this Vincentian Mindwalk, I would like to look at a specific experience of life that I will never have… the experience of having a different skin color than that with which I was born with.
I was recently struck by a description used by someone commenting on racism. When a person wears an identifying uniform of any kind, they have the ability to take it off each night. While they are wearing it they are identified by what that uniform represents. Often few get to see a reality that is much more than a uniform.
But for those who are born with another color than the dominant color of their society they are always known by their color… and the assumptions made on that basis.
What a tragedy! When we really see another person as a human being like ourselves we can understand that person is so much more than just their uniform. They have hopes and joys, their fears and failures, leading us to see them differently and learn the richness of their heritage.
Thinking through my reactions
We cannot respect and learn if we keep our eyes closed! Most of us are not keeping our eyes totally closed. But many of us are merely peeking at something that we know exists. The recent surfacing of so many questionable deaths related to assumptions is probably just the tip of the iceberg of discrimination.
There are so many ways that I as a person of a dominant culture cannot know what others are experiencing. Rarely have I had the experiences of not being seen as a person because of the color of my “uniform.” If I did, I really wonder what my reaction would be. I suspect it would be frustration at the least in not being accepted as a person.
The Congregation of the Mission is attempting to understand what our sisters and brothers are experiencing.
Here I share with you two ways my Province is asking me to open my eyes and heart. Although from different perspectives they speak about a reality of racism that is all to present in our society and even religious communities. Brother William Stover, an African American of our province has written a powerful description of his history in the past and the pain he experiences today. Fr. Marty McGeogh, pastor of our parish in Emmitsburg Maryland, reminds us of our heritage of discrimination not only as a church but also within our own province. (His homily begins at the 19-minute mark of the YouTube video.)
Click below for an audio version of this Vincentian Mindwalk
Thank you John for a number of things. Thank to for framing racism using what you can and cannot know because of who you are. It’s hard for us who do not and have not experienced this level of racism to “know” how desperate it is. The glimmer of annoyance I’ve felt as Irish living in another country being taunted, teased and stereotyped only goes some way to knowing what your two witnesses have described. I’m empathetic and embrace this lesson, and will work for racial understanding and harmony.
Fr I worked in so called ghetto areas most of time I worked .I got along better with people in disadvantage areas than in wealthy areas .
Sorry, i clicked on the wrong “reply” button. My comment belong is meant to be be a reply to your comment, Kieran Harrington.
In 1976 in Honolulu, I watched my get on the bus where little women (mostly older, mostly of Japanese descent) would not only not sit beside him, but would get up and move if he sat next to them. It is the only time I (we) have lived as a minority. And at that time (probably now as well) caucasian/white people were a distinct minority. A lesson in what it feels like to be viewed as a minority. As I watched this unfold, I was reminded of my childhood in Alabama where racism was and in many ways continues to be even more overt.
Many years later, this same man (my spouse) became somewhat a warrior for handicap accessibility after spending a very frustrating day attempting to get our wheelchair dependent neighbor into a mall in Atlanta.
Nothing like actual experience to help one walk a mile in another person’s shoes.
When I became a Probation Officer in 1973, I became immersed in a world of persons of color and it didn’t take long to recognize how they were treated much more poorly than white folks. I spent one year as a field officer, then another year as a Pre-Sentence Investigator. However, the majority of my 17 years there, I was responsible for scheduling and presenting violation hearings before the Court. What alarmed me was how many official folks were taking their personal prejudices out on some relatively harmless people. That included judges, lawyers, police officers and even probation staff.
In time, my Courthouse colleagues and I learned that we had to be careful how we scheduled multiple hearings in one day to ensure that there was a mixture of white and non-white offenders on the slate. Anyone present could observe the disparity in how they were treated. Soon, the Public Defender’s Office picked up on it and pointed it out to the various judges presiding. It didn’t always benefit those being treated more harshly, but sometimes it did.
I don’t serve myself up as a model for anything because my life has been a hardy dose of mistakes, misunderstandings and misguided intentions. I suspect that God will show me as much mercy as I tried to elicit all those years ago.
The same with Jesus. Those at the outskirts and the crossroads were more welcoming of him, more receptive. Wrote many years ago Frederick Buechner on “Poverty”:
“In a sense we are all hungry and in need, but most of us don’t recognize it. With plenty to eat in the deep freeze, with a roof over our heads and a car in the garage, we assume that the empty feeling inside must be just a case of the blues that can be cured by a Florida vacation, a new TV, an extra drink before supper.
“The poor, on the other hand, are under no such delusion. When Jesus says, “Come unto me all ye who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28), the poor stand a better chance than most of knowing what he’s talking about and knowing that he’s talking to them. In desperation they may even be willing to consider the possibility of accepting his offer. This is perhaps why Jesus on several occasions called them peculiarly blessed.”
I finally read the POWERFUL DESCRIPTION of the history of Brother William Stover. My heart sank and, as a white woman, I want to let Brother William know how I am trying to love my African American brothers and sisters, today.
I live with my husband in a 89 units building in Queens and, as soon as I saw how George Floyd was killed, I prepared a poster with the words: Black Lives Matter, I decorated it with images of candles, of flowers, of beautiful birds and together with my husband we hung it outside of our apartment door.
I wanted to console, first of all, our African American Super with whom I had had several exchanges of ideas about racism in this country. He had no hope in people any longer. He had told me that, only if God intervenes, things might change. Recently, I added Fall decorations and I moved the beautiful wooden heart from the bottom of the poster to the top.
I also published a booklet with my story of how I have been mistreated as a child only because I was… poor compared to all the other girls and boys who were coming from upper middle-class. I dedicated this booklet to my former African American physiotherapist who had remained quite surprised that such spanking on my head from age 6 through 10 had gone on in an all white society. She had confided to me that she had thought that certain things only happened to people like her because of the color of their skin!
In different societies, different classes of people are mistreated. Here, in this country, the African American people are the target, evidently, even if I must confess that Latinos, too, are not treated as we should treat our brothers and sisters. We need to wake up and stand up for justice, we Christians FIRST of all!
I was amazed to see how many times the word “justice” has been present in the prayers during our daily Mass in these past months! Amazing!